


Glisten

by Haecceity



Category: Legend of the Seeker
Genre: Bodily Functions, Coming of Age, Gen, Post Finale, Slavery, harm to a child
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-30
Updated: 2013-04-30
Packaged: 2017-12-09 23:23:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/779149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Haecceity/pseuds/Haecceity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Violet of Tamarang continues to live</p>
            </blockquote>





	Glisten

Once she would have started shouting at the sound of horses and the creaking of a cart. She would have demanded that they take her home, feed her. Or she'd threaten to chop off their heads. Once, more recently, she would have jumped over the shoulder of the track and hid in the bushes until the cart had passed. She would have trembled with fear of getting another boot in her ribs.

Now, she was tired. She put one bare foot in front of the other, eyes on the dirt road in front of her. Her back was on fire, the heat pounding in time with her pulse. From the corner of her eye she could see her sweat stiffened hair in its uneven hanks growing out from where the guards had cut it off. To take care of the lice they'd said.

"Whoa," a male voice said from her left. The cart creaked to a stop. "Girl! Do you need help?"

Her footsteps stuttered to a stop. She turned her head his direction but didn't look up. "Are you dead?" her voice croaked strangely. She couldn't remember how long it'd been since she'd spoken. Her throat felt raw and filled with dust.

The man sighed. "Get in the cart, child."

She thought to stay where she was but her knees had begun trembling. Shaking, she sat in the cart, looking at her hands. A piece of bread was placed between her hands. She stared at it uncomprehendingly for a moment before putting it in her mouth. She made a small noise as saliva flooded her mouth. She had had fancy cakes covered in fruit spreads and fine sugary icing. The bread was better.

"Do you have somewhere to go, child?" The man asked.

She shook her head silently. Once she would have demanded more food to satisfy the ache in her gut but now she feared it being withheld simply because she wanted it.

"Then you're coming home with me," the man said decisively. "There are other children like you there. The Seeker succeeded. There are no more Banelings. You'll be safe."

She shivered with a wash of cold, hands shaking harder. She remembered the screaming. One of the slaves in the mine had fallen over and died from exhaustion. The guards did not reach him before he stood again. The two of the guards he killed both took the bargain. She had been overlooked in the ensuing riot, escaping into the sunlight two days later for the first time in months. 

The man gave her another piece of bread and she realized he'd told her his name but she couldn't remember it. She didn't fall asleep but her weariness sent her mind away from her body. 

It was early evening when the cart stopped in front of a farmhouse and the man got out. Another man who looked very similar came and unhitched the horses while she stumbled out of the cart. After nearly landing on her face, she hesitantly began to walk toward the farmhouse. A boy with a burn scar on his face jumped out at her. She lost her balance and fell on her rear, scowling while he laughed. She sat, too tired to stand back up.

A woman came out of the building and shouted at the boy, her face in shadow except for a corona of red-gold hair. "Let's get you inside," the woman said gently.

She couldn't help it, she screamed when the woman touched her shoulder. Her whimpers echoed in her ears as the woman shouted at a man. She let the woman lead her into the house and up to the loft where an older woman was sitting near a small window with two small girls at her feet. She focused on remaining standing while the women talked about her. A curtain was pulled aside and she was given a little privacy while they removed her tunic.

"It's infected," were the only words to make it through her haze.

She didn't know much after the older woman held a knife over a candle flame and she felt the heat sliding down her back. There was pain and screaming and then it was over. There were cool blankets and a bed softer than the forest floor. There was sleep broken for moments with food and followed by more sleep.

She woke up on her stomach in mid afternoon. Her head was clear and her eyesight was sharp. She glanced toward the corner of the room and there was a girl there but it was the wrong one. She blinked hard. "Did I die?" her voice was rusty but no longer difficult to understand.

"No," a voice said from the other direction. "The Creator spared your life. I'm Grandma Ama."

She looked mistrustfully around. She'd never had a grandmother. Mother's mother had died before she was old enough to remember and... she had no family but Mother. 

"You can call me Mrs. Shepard if it's easier for you," Mrs. Shepard said quietly. "There's a Mr. Shepard around here too. You met my son, Derek, on the road. He's the middle boy. My eldest is Irina's father." Mrs. Shepard nodded toward the girl in the corner.

She nodded, absorbing the information quietly.

"You should get some more rest," Mrs. Shepard said. "What's your name?"

She shook her head and closed her eyes.

Next thing she knew she was up and about in time to help with the harvest. The Shepards grew grain and raised sheep. The grew enough to sell a bit of both at the end of the year. They made most of their own clothing and household items. It was strange for her; wearing someone else's dress. Once she asked them where their jewels were.

"Excuse me?" Wren asked with a laugh, her red-gold braids gleaming in the sunlight. 

"Where do you keep your jewels?" she asked again, irritation eclipsing curiosity. Were these people stupid?

"Oh, sweetheart," Wren sighed and pulled a leather thong out from under her dress. A polished wooden ring hung from it like a pendant. "This is the wedding ring my Urien gave me."

She frowned, not understanding. She remembered the feel of the key around her neck, the way she had guarded Mother's treasure so jealously. The feeling of being the one special enough to hold the key to things Mother held so dear. Maybe these people just didn't want to share.

It was winter and she was sitting in the barn while some of the children played nearby when she thought of it again. Mother had kept their treasures in a vault but there was no kind of place for a vault on the farm. There were no guards. Not even any swords. Just a couple of hunting javelins and some bows. She knew because she'd seen them when a D'Haran patrol had come by looking for Urien and saying he'd abandoned his post. There were no rooms big enough to hide even a chest.

So she began to wonder. What if it was the truth? It was hard for her to think his way toward what that might mean. Of course she and Mother had had the best. They'd had the best clothes; silks and lace all handwoven from the rarest materials. But other people had had clothes. They'd had the best horses; fast coursers and strong chargers with glossy coats and bunched muscles. But other people had horses. They had the best food, the best furniture, the best entertainment. But other people had these things. They had the best jewels; ones with names, ones the sparkled brightly with clear colors, unique gems set in precious metals that took a master crafstman's skill. But there were people who didn't have jewels. 

Now that she was healthy, she shared her bed with Irina and another girl. One early spring morning she woke up and found blood all over the sheets. Mrs. Shepard came up the stairs at a run and looked down at the bed.

"Oh, child," Mrs. Shepard quickly began stripping the bed. "This is part of growing up."

She frowned. "Then I don't want to." She ran outside and down the slope to the small river the farm drew its water from.

Mr. Shepard found her an hour or so later while she sat in the water and scowled at the small, darting fish. "I hear you took a big step in becoming a woman," he said as he pulled some reeds from the shore and began twisting them together.

"It hurts and it's messy," she wrinkled her nose and watched him warily.

"I've heard that," he said quietly, not looking up from his handwork.

"I hate it!" she shouted loudly.

"You want your mother?" Mr. Shepard asked quietly.

She felt tears rolling down her face. "Am I going to die?"

"Not from this," Mr. Shepard said confidently, pulling up a few more reeds. "Women aren't quite like sheep and men aren't quite like rams. This is one of the differences. You should ask Grandma Ama about it."

"I don't want to. I want it to stop." She said stubbornly.

"Well, that it won't do," he answered not unkindly. He waited for her to say something more and made no move to get her out of the water. After some more time had passed he stood up set what he was working on down on the rock he'd been sitting on and stretched. "That's for you. I need to get back to the sheep. I think Luna's just about due to start lambing." With that, he left her to her sulking.

She waited until he was gone and she was sure he wasn't coming back. She crept out of the water and picked up the bundle of reeds on the rock. One twisted braid of reeds was strung crosswise through another, longer one. The longer one had a loop at the top and a knot part way down, the reeds spearing out from in a triangle. It wasn't made of wood or porcelain. There was no lacquer or gold leaf. She still recognized it as a doll.

"Why?" she demanded after Mrs. Shepard had helped her clean up and told told her what to do for next time. After Mr. Shepard had come back from the pasturage and they'd all eaten. She held up the doll and asked Mr. Shepard insistently, "Why?"

"You won't talk to me or Ama or much of anyone. I figured you could talk to her."

She looked down at the doll and gently put it in her skirt's pocket. 

"The polite thing to say is thank you," Mr. Shepard told her.

"Thank you," she answered reluctantly.

On an evening in late summer she told him the doll's name. "She's Rachel," she told him quietly.

"Was Rachel your name?" he asked her gently and let it go when she shook her head.

That winter, she wanted to put Rachel outside in the rain to punish her. But then she'd get damp and moldy like the straw they hadn't collected in time. Then there would be no Rachel. So she held Rachel close and tried not to remember the dark of the mine.

It was a mistake but it wasn't her mistake and it wasn't theirs. With so many people on the farm, no one had noticed that three of the orphans didn't have birthdays. All a birthday meant to the other kids was a cake and some free time. For her, it meant other things. They'd meant well, she knew that. But she never wanted another birthday again and the way they'd looked at her with those big smiles and happy eyes like glittering jewels... She screamed that she hated them and ran out of the house.

In a quiet spot by the river she stared at the green sludge along the banks where the river had retreated and willed herself not to cry. A surprise party. A day of her own. She took Rachel out of her pocket and rubbed her thumb over the loop of a head. "It's not fair."

She recognized the footsteps behind her without turning around but she ignored Mr. Shepard and kept talking to Rachel. "It's not even my birthday."

"We thought it would cheer you up," Mr. Shepard said apologetically. "You never told us your birthdate."

"It happened on my brithday," she said, eyes closed tight against the tears. Only it didn't work and tears slid out anyway. 

"I'm sorry," he said. And he was. And it mattered. And it didn't.

She hugged her knees and wished she could tell the other Rachel.

Urien came back that winter. Just not all the way back. He said the D'Harans were retreating, the Seeker was calling them back behind D'Hara's original borders. Some sort of arrangement between the new Lord Rahl and the Mother Confessor Sometimes he screamed at night. He got angry with Wren for no reason and swore at the kids if they followed him out to the fields. She and Julien, the boy with the burn scar, stayed well clear of him every chance they got. She felt sorry for Mr. Shepard.

She was fifteen when Julien married and moved to another farm with his wife. She kept careful track of the days, waiting for something but not quite sure what. She kept her hair cut shorter than the other girls, liking the freedom it gave her. It grew out evenly and plain brown. She freckled in the sun, holding lambs still to notch their ears and cut off their tails and following the plowhorse to drop seeds in the furrow. Weeding. Watering. Fishing. Mr. Shepard told stories at night and she listened. He didn't always tell the ones she wanted and she listened anyway.

He told them about the Seeker and his quest to defeat Darken Rahl and she remembered red velvet and the end of her world. He told stories about the stone of tears and it meant nothing to her. He told stories about the great love of Kieran and Vivianne and she wished she could fall in love like that. Though she did think that dying in battle together was something she didn't want.

One by one the older children stopped being children. It struck her that one day she would no longer be a child. She smelled the scent of her sweat mixed with lye soap, of the cookfire and the stew over it, the cut grass and sheep's wool. This was not where she belonged. It was a strange visceral twist in her gut. She deserved... she didn't know what. But this was not her place. She could do this for the rest of her life but- But she would always wonder what else she could do. It would feel like she was still cowering from the dark of the mine.

There came a night she knew what to do. Mr. Shepard was on his way to bed when she tugged on his elbow. He stopped and looked at her and she almost went silent instead. She still took a deep breath and whispered her name in his ear. "I'm eighteen today," she said quietly.

"Congratulations," Mr. Shepard said softly. "I'll let Ama know you're going."

Her eyes filled with tears and panic clawed in her chest but she nodded. Three days later she was walking along a dirt road. Her boots didn't fit quite right so she carried them in one hand when she wasn't in a boggy area. She was wearing one of Wren's old dresses and the other woman was a handspan and a half shorter than she was. Her legs showed and the neckline was low enough in back to show the tops of her whip scars. Rachel was in her pocket and she had some supplies in Urien's old rucksack.

By the time she reached her destination it had been a few months and her feet were well callused. She waited in line with all the other petitioners, remembering what it had been like to be in a building so large and so fine. There was jealousy and fear and nostalgia and more emotions she couldn't untangle.

She wanted to run but she stood her ground, staying in line all the way to the throne room where she looked the Mother Confessor in the eye and said, "I am Princess Violet of Tamarang and I am here for my birthright."


End file.
